Clinical Constellations
by Saiyu
Summary: You're never supposed to make friends with your doctors. Diagnose, treat, and leave. Rayne has been diagnosed, treated but, unfortunately, hasn't left. It takes a meeting with a certain Dr. Cameron to untangle Rayne from the hospital's web.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** My first House, M.D fiction! Enjoy it! Kudos goes to fellow author 'Camlem', who made me realize that I should post this! Thanks, again!

**Disclaimer; **First time I've done one of these, but House, M.D does not belong to me.

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**Chapter .One.** - Interaction Satisfaction

Rayne wanted to meet at least _one_ person who actually liked hospital food. She wasn't saying that the food was 100% disgusting, she did love the lime green jell-o, but the chicken tasted like styrofoam—definitely not like the advertised 'Southern Chicken. That was cause enough to become concerned, if not complain. Not unless Southern Chicken did,_ indeed,_ taste like styrofoam. Rayne had her doubts.

Tying back her raven black hair, Rayne leaned over in her hospital bed and took another wiff of the food that was laying on the tray. It still smelled like styrofoam. Annoyed she picked up the plastic fork and poked at the chicken shaped mush. Rayne knew that if she didn't eat they'd keep her in the hospital longer, most likely blame it on her clinical depression. She rolled her blue eyes in their sockets and shoveled a large portion of the chicken into her mouth. She hated when people blamed her often pessimistic and apathetic attitude on her depression. She was like that even before she was diagnosed. Oh well, what could she do? That being a rhetorical question.

Chasing down the chicken with a bit of water, Rayne reclined back in her bed—looking over at the annoying IV line that was connected to her left arm. The stickies on her chest were also annoying. So what if she had had another seizure, to her that was the norm. She had learned to deal with it, but she guessed collasping in the street was a different story. Collasping in the street _without_ your medical bracelet. Whatever, she hated the thing anyway. Rayne never liked the idea of having her heart on her sleeve, in this case her weakness. Back to the annoying IV in her arm, it hurt every time she moved it and she moved it _a lot_. Artists often did.

Rayne sat back up in her bed, beginning to tackle the rest of her dinner as she looked out her bedside window. Around this time was when she would start getting ready for work. Her body twitched at that moment, telling her that she should be getting out of bed and into the shower, get dressed and head on the bus. A routine she had been used to for a _very_ long time. Working the night shift was like a God send to Rayne, if she was awake for the entire night—why not take a night job? However, being admitted into a hospital, and the doctors _knowing _you have chronic insomnia, meant you _had_ to sleep. You better sleep and you better eat, or else you'd never get out of the hospital.

"How's dinner tonight, Rayne?"

Rayne swallowed a mouthful of bland mashed potatoes and gave the nurse a fake smile. "Inglorious." She mumbled, sipping her water and watching the nurse come to her bedside. This one particular nurse, Orwell, was always the one who came in to give Rayne her healthy dose of sleeping juice through her IV. What Rayne didn't have the heart to tell this female nurse was that it _never_ worked. Actually, she didn't want to tell. She'd rather be up all night. The interesting things always seemed to happen at night.

"Well, I'm sorry to hear your dinner is such." Nurse Orwell sighed, as if she had heard about the hospital food well enough throughout her day. "You plan on finishing or would you rather head to bed now?"

"The night is still young." Rayne said, matter-o-factly. "I'd rather try to finish this meal while I'm at it."

The nurse fixed her brunette hair into a ponytail and checked a small watch that was hidden inside her smock pocket. She gave Rayne a bland look and finally nodded her head in defeat. "Alright, I'll come back in an hour or so, then it's sleepy time."

"Wonderful, do I get a bedtime story as well?" Rayne smiled to show that it was a genuine joke. She and Nurse Orwell had seen so much of each other in the past couple of days that you would think the humour would be understood.

But when Orwell shook her head and left the room, Rayne knew the two weren't on the same page. She didn't even know _why_ she tried on making friends with people. She was never any good at it. But _normal_ people had friends, so Rayne had to try. She waited until Orwell had completely vanished from sight, before she leaned over, dragged the garbage bin next to her bed, and released the contents in her stomach.

That southern chicken sure as hell was something else.

*****

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To Allison Cameron, late nights at the Plainsboro Hospital were an everyday thing. She had since lost count of the sleepless nights she had at the hospital and she wasn't planning on keeping count again any time soon. She leaned back in her chair, stretching her arms over her head and letting out a sigh. It was when her stomach grumbled that she remembered that she hadn't even ate dinner. She paused for a moment, looking at the mountain of paper work in front of her, and decided that a trip to the vending machine was called for.

The only thing Allison really hated about staying at the hospital so late was the lack of movement. Everything was eerily quiet and a bit more morbid than things were in the day time. Not to mention that the cafeteria was closed at this time of night. Well, not really closed but the quality of the food wasn't as good this time. It usually consisted of the stuff that had been sitting out all morning and afternoon, the left overs of the hospital line. As Allison stood in front of the vending machine, searching for something to eat, she plunged her hands into her lab coat—fishing out the bit of spare change she had. Anything to _not_ break a bill.

"Yet another late night visit to the God known as the vending machine..."

The all too familiar Aussie accent caused Cameron to smile as she pushed a few quarters into the machine. "A God we all can worship." She answered, looking up to see Chase—who was also looking at another vending machine, jingling a handful of change in his hand.

"I was planning on the chocolate bar, I need the pick me up." Chase mumbled, more to himself than to Cameron and pushed his selection on the vending machine.

"Good choice, but the real question is—the milk chocolate or the peanut butter infused chocolate cup?" Cameron couldn't make the decision. While it was true that she could buy both she didn't want to be hyped up on the chocolately confection all night. She looked over to Chase, pushing back her auburn hair from her face, as he reached down to get his choice of sugar.

"That should _never_ be a question." Chase smiled, holding up his selection. "It's all about the peanut butter cup." He waited as Cameron picked the same and the two began the short walk back to House's office. At least tonight was going to be a quiet night, usually it was them, Foreman _and_ House in the office. But both of them had left early and Chase was actually looking forward to spending some time with Cameron alone.

"I can't wait to finish up the paper work. I'm about ready to collapse." Cameron sighed and bit into her peanut butter cup, giving the thumbs up to Chase about his decision in candy.

"You? I think I fell asleep a couple of times already."

"Was that before or after you decided to disappear?"

"Both."

The two shared a small laugh, Chase opening the door to the office and motioning for Cameron to walk in. She did so, giving him a small salute, and the two got back to their paper work. It was when Cameron reached to grab the second of her chocolate cup that she noticed it was already gone. She looked over to Chase who was already holding up another cup and she smiled as he broke it in half and gave her the bigger piece.

"Definitely going to be up all night."

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**A/N: Yay or Nay? R&R?**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter .Two.** - Being In A Birdcage

**Early Morning**

The dreaded clinic. People sitting in their chairs, noses buried in newspapers or cross word puzzles as they waited to be called. The sound of nosey kids, sniffling, complaining, crying, snoring, sleeping. Whatever. Old people coughing, passing their germs, and blowing their old noses into their old napkins held by their old hands. There were many things to hate about the Plainsboro Clinic. One being that it was _free_, which meant more people shuffling in by the minute. The second being—all the stuff that was just mentioned.

Gregory House _hated_ the clinic with a passion. Here he was, trying to read the newspaper—something innocent and totally mundane—but the sniffling kid sitting next to him was making it otherwise.

"If you keep sniffling—" House leaned over in his seat, the kid getting startled at hearing his voice. "—you might suck up your own brain into your mouth...." With that, House shuffled his newspaper and went back to reading the horoscopes, completely ignoring the kid—who had know bursted out into tears. He propped his feet up on the table in front of him and leaned in his chair.

"Now I wonder who could it be hiding behind that newspaper, trying to get out of Clinic Duty?"

"Now I wonder who could it be behind _my_ newspaper, trying to get me to _do_ Clinic Duty?" Folding his paper in half with an exageratted sigh, House looked up to meet the stern eyes of Lisa Cuddy, her hands on her hips and her head shaking from side to side. "Oh, you can keep staring...it's not going to work."

Cuddy's attention was shifted to the crying boy sitting next to House, his mother trying her best to calm him down. She looked back over to House, his hands linked together, his cane resting on his arm, and his mouth twisted into a sly smile. Yea, House made the kid cry. Go figure.

"Sitting here, next to this little flesh bag, I think I've caught something." To legitmize his claims, House let out a lengthy, wet-sounding, hack of a cough—complete with spitting up _something_ into a napkin. He looked at the napkin with a mock facination.

"Whoa, it's like a Rorshach Test. Wanna see?" He was ready to hold it up, but Cuddy quickly held up her hand, rolling her eyes.

"Just do your hours, House. The sooner you get them done the sooner you can leave the clinic." Cuddy crossed her arms over her chest, watching as House got up from where he sat, leaning on his cane.

"I'm contagious, though. Wouldn't want to pass it now. It could be..." House looked around suspiciously, before leaning in on his cane, close to Cuddy. "...the _swine._"

"House—" Cuddy began, pinching the bridge of her nose but she was soon interrupted by House, the man letting out the most exageratted sigh of complaint.

"Fine, fine." He turned around, facing the mother with the child, who had yet to stop crying. "Give the kid some cough medicine and something hot to eat, kid's got a sore throat. Explains the crying. Pain travels...I would know."

House looked around the clinic, his light blue eyes landing on the next patient, an old man with a red face. "Constipation! Drink some prune juice." He continued to point around the clinic with his cane, dishing out medical help as quick as he could.

"All done. Release me from thy shackles." House held up his hands to Cuddy, who looked completely defeated. The two engaged in a small staring contest, House not blinking and neither Cuddy. She was the first to look away, causing House to clap his hands in his winning.

"You _owe_ me clinic hours." Cuddy mumbled.

"Put it on my tab, bartender." House retorted, limping his way out of the clinic with a triumphant smile.

*****

At least breakfast was managable. An onion bagel, cream cheese, orange juice, oatmeal and low fat milk. Rayne took her time enjoying breakfast for two reasons. One, it was just that good. Two, she didn't feel like being treated like a baby. It was after every breakfast another nurse would come into her room and hand her a day's worth of medication. Trazadone for her depression and anxiety and a new drug, Topomax for her seizures. So far she hadn't spazzed out of bed or spit up a mouthful of foam so it _must've_ been working. Which was awesome. Rayne just couldn't wait to get back home.

"Good Morning, Ms. Quinn. How's breakfast?" It was a male nurse who asked this, his face to cheery for this ungodly time of day. Even still, Rayne managed to give the nurse a smile.

"Good." She mumbled. To be honest she could've done her usual pessimistic answer but she just wasn't in the mood. Besides, they would log her response and the more they seemed negative the more depressed they thought she was. There was just no winning with the hospital—she would know.

"The usual dessert." The nurse smiled, placing a small cup of pills next to Rayne's tray. He began to open the blinds to her windows, letting in the early morning sun. Rayne sighed and took a sip of her orange juice. The nurse would linger around as long as he could until Rayne would finally take her meds.

"Heart rate went up a bit last night, you should give me a check – up...I could be _dying_." Rayne needed the entertainment, she really did. There was nothing else to do but look at T.V and draw, which took up most of her time.

This nurse, fortunately, had a sense of humour and laughed off Rayne's comment, motioning for her to drink her pills. "I'm sure if you take those you won't." He walked over to the trash can, looking inside. It was a good thing Rayne washed out last night's dinner, or else that would get marked down and lengthen her stay. He began to tinker with her IV drip, Rayne not really caring and finally throwing the pills into her mouth and chasing it back with a hefty gulp of orange juice.

"All done." Rayne gave the small cup back to the nurse, who smiled and made his way out of her room—assuring her that he'd be back later to get her tray. Blah, blah, blah. Kicking the blankets off of her body, Rayne made her way to the tiny bathroom, washing her face, brushing her teeth and trying her best to wash herself. Not having a shower in your room called for using the sink and a paper towel. It was when she left the bathroom, ready to begin a new page of drawing—that a commotion out in the hallway caught her attention.

A new patient and by the looks of it, it looked interesting enough. Maybe Rayne was a bit morbid in thinking that a sickly patient would be interesting, but hey, like said before—she needed the entertainment. If she could busy herself diagnosing a patient from her room, without ever seeing said patient, it would keep her busy for _hours_. Hours, maybe even days depending on how long the patient stood on the third floor.

"You are going to keep me busy." Rayne mumbled to herself, plopping herself back down on her bed and taking out her art pad to begin another sketch.


End file.
